


Heartbeat

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Travels [42]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 13:49:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3412988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written from a prompt on Tumblr: "imagine person A of your otp having a brush with death, but coming out alive and well. imagine person B having awful nightmares about losing them, and in the middle of the night going to person A and resting their head against A’s chest to listen to their heartbeat, just to reassure themself that person A is still alive."<br/>Set in the aftermath of killing the Archdemon - somewhere between the end of Final Stand and Ceremony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbeat

In the days that followed the Archdemon’s defeat, Zevran watched as Theron grew well enough to leave the room that had been repurposed for his recovery. With the rest of Denerim dazed at the narrowly-averted end of the world and busy with rebuilding itself, they wandered the undisturbed halls of Fort Drakon - ensuring to steer well clear of the prison and torture chamber. They’d both rushed through the fort intent on killing darkspawn and reaching the roof the last time they'd been up here, and now explored the abandoned upper rooms away from the healers and their charges.

Theron was still quiet, eyes slightly glazed from the pain-numbing potion Wynne had given him. Underneath his plainclothes were the stark white bandages that wrapped around his side, kept on despite the fact the three clawmarks that had been gouged into his skin were little more than scars now.

“Do they hurt?” Zevran once asked while they ambled through what had once been the guard quarters, but had since been ravaged by darkspawn and then emptied of any bodies, but not restored or tidied. There was still dried blood in the corners of the room, and little furniture remained undamaged.

Theron hesitated, but then nodded.

“Not now, but once the potion wears off…” The ranger sighed, looking down at their joined hands. They were walking close enough that Zevran would normally have put an arm round Theron’s waist, but he hadn’t wanted to put pressure on the bandages.

They grew quiet again, the only sounds their soft footsteps on the cold stone floor and the faint noise of the wind rushing through an open or broken window somewhere up ahead, chilling the already cold room further.

“I cannot believe you survived.” Zevran began, and Theron nodded. “Perhaps the Creators were watching over you, no?” He suggested expectantly, and the ranger looked away uncomfortably, expression twisting into one of pained guilt.

“Perhaps.” Theron replied, quickly changing the subject as they walked further on through the abandoned rooms. If Zevran noticed the ranger’s discomfort, he didn’t say.

 

Later that night, Zevran was the one to wake up to the darkness with fear coiled low in his gut. It seemed that killing the Archdemon had given Theron, and most likely Alistair as well, a reprieve from the nightmares; the ranger was fast asleep beside him, bandaged side rising and falling steadily.

The blond sat there, trying to shake off the nightmare - no wonder Theron took hours to relax from his own afterimages, if he had similar ordeals regularly.

In the nightmare, the dog had not stopped howling as it stood over Theron. Wynne and Alistair had not interrupted him, but stood in mourning. Theron had remained lying still in the pool of his and the Archdemon’s blood, eyes firmly closed. He could have died so easily on that day.

Zevran was alarmed at the chill of horror that washed through him at the thought, of Theron dying. If it hadn’t been the Archdemon, it could so easily have been from the claws of one of the ogres he’d seen in the Alienage, or some unknown blade or arrow from a lesser darkspawn. Even a stray spell.

A near-hysterical laugh bubbled up at the idea, and Zevran quietly cleared his throat to recollect himself. The great Hero of Ferelden, toppled by friendly fire. The Antivan looked over at the sleeping Dalish, the way Theron’s chin was tucked against his chest, arms stretched out to one side with his hands nearly off the bed.

Zevran was earnestly glad that none of it had come to pass. He carefully lay back down on the bed behind Theron, edging close enough to wrap an arm round the other elf and press his back to his own chest. The ranger barely stirred, and Zevran wondered if he was having pleasant dreams for once.

At this angle, the former Crow could put a hand on the ranger’s scarred chest, at the top of his sternum. He was rewarded by the steady pulse of life under his hands, Theron’s firm and strong heartbeat, slowed by sleep but definitely there.

Zevran closed his eyes, feeling Theron’s heartbeat and slow breathing, just out of sync with his own. He withdrew his hand and opened his eyes after several long minutes passed by, edging back on the bed, and then gently turned the ranger so he was lying on his back.

“ _Amor_ , you are the luckiest, most reckless man in all of Thedas.” The former Crow murmured with a shaky smile as he curled up against the other elf, resting his head close to where his hand had been. Then, listening to the reassuringly strong ‘ _tha-thump_ ’ of Theron’s heartbeat close to his ear, Zevran managed to fall asleep once more.

**Author's Note:**

> http://a-mahariels-travels.tumblr.com/post/111748712768/series-update


End file.
